Better Days
by Rebekah Caren
Summary: Three months into Karen Vick' suspension. Three months into Carlton Lassiter's demotion. Juliet O'Hara is nearly on her last leg. It's amazing how fast things can go downhill.


**I don't own ****_Psych._**

* * *

For a moment, Karen could have sworn her mind had gone blank. But the second she thought that, her brain refilled with the images of that crime scene. The worst one. The one that had looked so much like her own little girl that she wept while consoling the mother. Her eyes flew open, banishing the image momentarily.

"Calm down. Iris is in bed," she told herself soothingly.

She looked down at the fresh bubbles that surrounded her and turned off the tap. She finally closed her eyes and tried to focus on the moment, on the feeling of being alive. The blood that pumped through her veins. The scent of the bath oils that surrounded her.

It was almost real.

It was almost home.

The door opened abruptly and she opened her eyes.

"Oh, hey," Richard greeted.

"Hey."

Karen didn't even have the strength to complain when he forgot to lift up the toilet seat. It was one of the many things she had given up on after countless years of marriage.

After he was done, Richard left the bathroom, pulled off his tie, and left the door open. Karen looked after him, making sure he was out of sight -she knew he was undressing in their room- before lifting herself out of the tub and wrapping a towel around her slim body.

Once dry, she dropped the towel. Blankly staring at her nude figure in the mirror, she untied her hair from the small bun. She looked closely at her image. Time off (mandatory or not), didn't suit her. Dark circle had crept underneath her eyes, contrasting her blonde tresses which now teased her upper back. She let her eyes drift lower in the mirror, settling on her stomach.

"Well, no surprise there," she murmured to herself, tracing one of the faint marks. She turned to pick up her clothes, only to remember she had forgotten her clothes in the cursed under her breath and covered herself with a robe. Sure enough, Richard's clothes were scattered all over the floor. She stepped on them on her way to the dresser. She grabbed her clothes and marched back to the bathroom, once again stepping on his shirt. She thought she'd seen a lipstick mark on his collar, from the corner of her eyes.

But she didn't turn to look again. She continued her path.

Richard's laugh filled the bedroom when she re-entered it. Another lame TV program she couldn't bring herself to give a minute of her attention. Good thing it was something she had learned to block out.

Her self assurance wore thin, and she checked in on a sleeping and safe Iris before laying down in her bed. She reached for her nightstand, pulling a Tylenol PM from the drawer. She swallowed it dry.

Karen curled against herself under the comforter, wondering how it had gotten that way.

-.-.-.-.-.-

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

One thing Carlton Lassiter had always prided himself in was taking care of those he loved. But now he was sitting on his bed, watching his wife pack her things.

"Please don't go, Marlowe," he said hoarsely. She didn't turn, only continued packing. The talking was over. The screaming was over. The begging was over. The marriage was done for.

He knew. He didn't want to face it.

"Don't, Carlton," she said, dumping another drawer into one of her many suitcases. She squeezed it shut and zipped it. She disappeared into the bathroom. He put his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. He blinked furiously, trying to wake up. This wasn't happening again.

He kept telling himself that.

Marlowe emerged from the bathroom, her make up bag and a few towels in tow. She shoved them into a bag, zipping it shut.

"Do you need help getting them into your car?" he asked quietly after a few moments. She nodded.

"If you would, please," she said, her voice softer than it had been the past few days. It wouldn't fool him though. There was no hope. No tricks. Not this time.

He slung a duffel bag onto his shoulder and picked up her two suit cases. They walked silently through the home they had shared for less than six months, picking up a few of her knickknacks. They walked solemnly down to the garage, where he loaded her things into her car.

"I'm sorry," he said, leaning away from the car as she cranked it up. She said nothing. He watched her drive away.

Hours later found him on his living room floor nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. A blonde figure draped a quilt over his shoulders before dropping to the floor beside him.

"It'll be okay, Carlton," Juliet said soothingly. To him, though, the words cut like a knife. He just nodded, tipping the bottle up again.

Juliet sighed and rubbed his back. She turned on another Clint Eastwood movie and they both lapsed back into the eerie sounds of liqueur against glass accompanied by gunshots.

"These three months have really kicked our asses, huh?" he said, offering her the bottle. She took it and drank, coughing slightly.

"Yeah. It'll get better, though. When Chief gets back, it'll go back to normal.."

Neither of them could really bring themselves to believe that.


End file.
